Riccardo leads Y/N towards the farthest, most intimate corner of the room, a red velvet booth curved snugly around an immaculately set circular table.
It's lit frown above by a dim, low-hanging lamp which Sherlock has to duck underneath as their host excitedly pushes him into his seat by the shoulders.
"See, this is nice, no?" He asks with a suggestive, twinkling smile. He doesn't push Y/N into her side of the booth; he invites her to take a seat with a bow, the booth plush as a fine sofa. With a whip-like flap, he unfolds her napkin like a bullfighter and drapes it elegantly across her lap. "You see this, ragazzo?" he addresses Sherlock now, his tone firm like a father, "You watch what I am doing. You must treat your woman like the fine, beautiful lady she is."
Y/N can't help smiling at the theatre of it all, her cheeks flushing at the attention. Glancing at Sherlock, she finds that, despite their years of friendship, he still doesn't seem to be used to the chef's flamboyant personality.
He gives a wobbly smile. "Thank you, Riccardo; for the beautiful tableâand the advice."
Riccardo taps his shiny pink nose, giving Y/N a wink that suggests he was quite the Casanova back in his day. "Trust Riccardo; he knows about these things."
A green wine bottle stands by the salt and pepper, a red candle wedged tight into its neck, and the chef lights it, the match taking with a crackle. The wax looks like it has been steadily dribbling for ten or so years, the bottle and the tablecloth now very much one and the same.
A waiter glides by, placing a basket of bread down on the tableâ
âbut Riccardo snatches it up before the wicker so much as kisses the table.
"This bread is not for you!" He sneers at the plump little rolls as if they've offended him. "I get you the special bread. You wait, you don't move!"
Before Sherlock and Y/N can insistâin the classical British way they were raisedâthat the available bread will be absolutely fine and please don't go to any trouble, Riccardo has whisked away, the kitchen doors swinging frantically once more.
When he emerges, he holds a different basket, this one trailing steam through the air as he waltzes toward them. He places it down reverently, even tweaking its angle as if positioning it for a photoshoot.
"There you are! The best bread in the house for my best customer." Finally satisfied now that his guests are settled in, he turns to Sherlock, giving him a suggestive smile. "So, you bring your lady on a uh...a date, tonight, yes? You bring your beautiful woman to Riccardo's because you want to show her the best!" Proudly, he gestures to his restaurant, both of his short arms stretched wide as if he wants to bundle up the wallpapered walls and the shiny wooden floors and the paintings of the old country and hug them.
Once again hoping for flustered Sherlock to make an appearance, Y/N peeks at him over her menuâ
âbut is ultimately disappointed as he dodges the question with an easy shrug.
"Where else would we go, Riccardo? Francesco's Pizzeria?"
They both laugh in a way that makes Y/N assume that whoever Francesco is, he does not make good pizza.
Eventually, Riccardo takes their drinks order and gives them a surprisingly deep bow considering his age and physique, and gestures to the basket of golden bread with a "Mangia! Mangia!".
Moments after he's bustled back to the kitchen, Y/N hears him shout "No, no no! Stir the sauce with feeling! Look at this spaghetti! It has the depression like the sad donkey from the Winnie And The Pooh!"
Y/N and Sherlock exchange a glance, and together, in their snug little booth, share the first of many giggles of the evening.
Their new basket of bread does not feature a clutch of round, shiny rolls, but rather a tear-apart, puffy white loaf, smelling of garlic and dusted with a shower of confetti-like herbs.
Unable to resist, Y/N rips off the first slice, the dough hot between her fingers. "So what did you do to earn the good bread?"
Half of London seems to have adopted her flatmate as either their surrogate son, grandson, or deity.
While she is immensely proud of him, and more than pleased he is getting some affection, Y/N can't help smiling to herself whenever someone showers him with perhaps a little too much unearned praise.
They see him as a genius; a saviour for vindicating their misunderstood daughter, or recovering their life savings, or tracking down their missing spouse.
Y/N has seen him trip over a duvet.
"I cleared his name after he was accused of setting his restaurant on fire for the insurance money."
"How did it catch fire, in the end? Was it the oven or something?"
"Oh, no, he definitely set the fire. But I really enjoy his lasagna so I did everything I could to stop him getting a sentence."
Y/N raises a disproving eyebrow at his chaotic-neutral approach to ethics, and pops a chunk of bread into her mouth.
Her eyes widen.
Sherlock leans forward, quite panicked. "What? What is it?"
"...Oh my god." With a low, almost whimpering sound, Y/N's spine slackens like rope and she melts into their plush velvet seat.
Her hands are already fervently ripping off another piece:
"Oh my god oh my god oh my god."
Sherlock breathes out the breath he had sucked in, loosening. He watches, amused at first as Y/N hums and moans over her first slice, but after the second he's fidgeting, his smile gone. Clearing his throat, he unbuttons his jacket, his fingers a little clumsy with the buttons.
"...I take it you like the bread?"
Y/N pops her fingers into her mouth one by one, lapping up the grease. "It's heaven. Is the baker single? I want to marry him."
Sherlock eyebrow twitches. "Yes. But I don't think he's the right man for you."
"Why not?"
"He's fifty-two."
"Maybe I'm into dilfs?"
"What?"
"Dilfs who make good bread."
Sherlock looks, if anything, unimpressed. "I'm sure I could make bread at the flat," he says flatly. "Mum used to do it, it's, like, four ingredients."
Y/N tears off another slice, the butter squeezing out between finger and thumb like a sodden, oily sponge. "Sherlock, if you made me garlic bread I'd marry you." She holds the bread out to him. "Have some."
His lips are parted and he blinks, and Y/N rolls her eyes. "Don't look so surprised, what did you think I was going to do? Eat it all myself?"
Distractedly, he accepts the slice, his fingers sinking into the damp, warm dough.
It dribbles garlic butter onto the table cloth but it takes his eyes a little while to notice. He drags them away from Y/N and self-consciously mops up his mess with a napkin.
She's watching him, waiting for his reaction.
Despite his earlier snark, he still can't help making a small noise as he takes a bite, the butter oozing over his tongue.
He would have noticed Y/N's cheeks turn quite red if he wasn't too busy taking another piece as if scared it'd disappear.
"See? Good isn't it?"
"Okay, well now we've got a predicament," he points out through a mouthful. "We'll both have to propose, and Alberto will have to pick whomever he prefers."
Y/N grinsâthat grin she grins when she's goading him into a pretend argument. "Oh, he'll pick me, for sure."
Sherlock just meets her eyes. "Well, of course. He'd be insane not to."
...
The next day, Y/N reluctantly reaches for the doorknob, her London Underground Rail card already filling her phone screen.
It always feels wrong to leave Sherlock home alone while she's at work.
Like closing the door on a dog, or perhaps a very needy cat.
It's not that she doesn't trust him to behave himself while she's away; he isn't doing anything wrong.
Just slightly odd.
He called it 'Da-Vinci's-Ornithopter-But-Made-By-Someone-Who-Actually-Knows-What-They're-Doing'.
Luckily, Y/N doesn't think there's any real danger of him bringing his plan to fruition; he has vision and enthusiasm but, so far, his project is entirely speculative.
Sighing, she slides her phone into her pocket and approaches where he's hunched over his desk.
It's buried under several layers of square-ruled paper, and, cautiously, she leans over his shoulder to peek at his progress.
His notebook is covered in diagrams, but no equations, because he's bad at math and avoids it whenever possible. According to his plans, his flying machine will be made mainly out of raw silk. This concerns Y/N, because Berwick Street Fabric Market is only nine minutes drown the road.
She hopes he doesn't know this.
Who is she kidding? Of course he does.
There's a box of French Fancies open by his left elbow, and, periodically, Sherlock puts a whole one in his mouth and sucks it.
He's eating them in colour order.
There are no pink ones left.
"...I think you should go out today," Y/N says firmly. She watches his hand carefully sketch the curve of a bat-like wing. "You look like you're having a complete mental breakdown."
Sherlock hadn't looked up from what he was doing. "It's not complete until I stop wearing trousers."
"What about Mr Roberts from down the road? You could play Jenga."
"I haven't seen him in a while, and I have to admit: I've enjoyed every minute of our time apart."
"You don't mean that."
"I do. He's dull! I've met more interesting plants!" He'd opened his desk drawer then shut it, the contents sliding about inside. "I think I'm ready for a prototype but I can't think for the life of me what I could use as the wings."
"I don't know. One of your shirts?" Y/N quips, but he stands up excitedly, grabbing the sides of her face and kissing her firmly on the forehead. "Yes! I don't know where I'd be without you."
"Some kind of institution, probably. What about John?"
"I don't want to see him; he's started working on the night shift at the surgery and completely lost his sense of humour."
"You mean he's too tired to put up with your nonsense?"
"Something to that effect."
"How about...now hear me out...you could volunteer in the forensics lab at Scotland Yard. The lab techs could always use a hand, and it's something to do."
From his bedroom:
"Y/N, you know they're all idiots."
"They have doctorates."
Sherlock returns, a seldom-seen blue button-up in one hand. "Makes it official then."
Y/N rolls her eyes and sighs again; mainly in relief that the shirt he's decided to butcher is one she knows to be too smallâand an ugly colour. Defeated, she gives his shoulder a squeeze. "Fine. Just don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, I worry about you."
At the touch, his hand pauses, the scissors coming to a halt.
By the door, Y/N unlocks her phone again, her railcard flashing back up. She can feel eyes on the side of her face, and raises her head to find Sherlock has turned around to watch her.
Quietly:
"I hate it when you go to work."
She blinks, his honesty unexpected and, oddly upsetting. She presses her lips into a sad smile. "Me too."
Pushing his chair away from his desk, his project forgotten, Sherlock stands, shrugging conclusively. His dressing gown is hanging off one shoulder and he looks quite pathetic. "Don't go, then.
"I have to, or I'll be fired. I've already taken three days off this month because you wanted to go find 'the beast of Bodmin'."
"Hey, you wanted to see that panther just as much as me." He must catch her expression because he wilts. "Fine. But text me at lunchtime. I get bored."